Salvation
by Adi88
Summary: A series of loosely connected - if at all - one-shots, co-authored with Fading Grace. AziraphaleCrowley. Likely to be largely set in various historical periods.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Right. Okay. Um. A Goddess in Human Form, a Being of Celestial Wonder, asked me to write some AziraphaleCrowley stuff for her. I said yes, because she is, as mentioned, really freaking cool, and also I owe her pretty much my soul for all the things she writes - so achingly well - when I whine for them.

Then she said, "Or, on the other hand, let's both write it, in alternating one-shots." Which takes half of the burden off of me, plus means I get to read more of her stuff, so obviously my response was, "Yes, this does resemble paradise on earth."

And… here it is. This shot is mine, the next one will be hers, and so on, but I'll mark them as such each time.

For the belated record: this being is Fading Grace.

Disclaimer: Neither of us own anything to do with _Good Omens_, except copies of the book. It's all Terry Pratchett's and Neil Gaiman's.

* * *

Cordelia: Hello? It _felt_ like I was talking. My _lips _were moving.  
Xander: Give it up, Cordy. You're never going to get between those two. Believe me, I know. 

- Buffy the Vampire Slayer, "Halloween"

* * *

Three, Crowley thought, was a good number. It had a sound mythological base. Maybe not in his mythology, as much as others, but sometimes it didn't pay to be picky. 

Three was also the number of the kinds of people who visited Aziraphale and his book collection in Soho. This was a good thing as well. (Or not_good_. Not _good_ exactly. One didn't throw words like "good" around without qualifiers.) Not only was it a solid number, a predictable number, it was a manageable number.

Sometimes one wanted to drop in on an old not-friend, and Crowley's personal preference was for Aziraphale's company to be rather like the number three - solid, predictable, and manageable. This meant not having to fight his way to the door. Also, even if they were not-friends, they were still On Opposite Sides of the Eternal War Between Good and Evil, so he did expect a bit of attention when he showed up. For form's sake.

Suspicious auditors, misguided souls under the impression that they could give Aziraphale money and then leave with a book, and the kinds of people who made threats about how flammable paper was (whether out loud or just with large smiles). Those were the kinds of people who were expected.

None of them stayed very long.

And then there was Crowley. And then, one day, there was Alex.

Alex didn't fit into any of the established categories. He had originally been at least theoretically one of the lost souls, but had quickly realized that this tactic was not working and applied others in order to achieve his actual aim, to which Aziraphale remained blissfully oblivious.

The first time Crowley dropped in they were laughing together (an angel and a human! Not that there was anything wrong with interaction, per se, a little divine ecstasy was fine, but a conversation? It was like rats and mice. Same shape, but there was nothing to _talk_ about) on the subject of old books, which apparently were the new banana peel of humor. Crowley had missed the memo.

He had waited, impatiently, until Alex left. He had stood in the light just so, to show off his cheekbones and sunglasses, which he could wear inside the dark shop without bumping into things - more than Alex could ever do. He had been successful, on a small scale, since Alex had seemed intimidated and suspicious and curious. This, unfortunately, had only made him linger.

Still, he did leave eventually. "What," Crowley had asked, "do you think you're doing with him, angel?"

"Doing? Nothing. Why? Haven't you ever had a human hang about like that?"

"Yes," Crowley admitted. It was the cheekbones. Aziraphale, though, was pleasantly soft and plump-looking, not at all in keeping with what vapid modern people like Alex ought to be interested in. "But _I_ know what they _want_. _I _wasn't born yesterday." He reflected upon this. "Rather the opposite, really."

"What, tomorrow? That's a tad ridiculous, dear."

This had resulted in Crowley explaining what he'd meant in rather sharp tones, which in turn degenerated into a philosophical and theosophical debate, which is what any disagreement between a Celestial and an Infernal being becomes even when it consists mainly of name-calling.

So Crowley came back the next day - not to apologize, because low-grade, annoying evil was what he did, even to not-friend angels, and he'd been doing his job, certainly not spiraling into an Emotional Morass. Just to sort of drop in.

Alex was there again.

This time, Crowley decided to pitch in and do his bit to make the world a better place. (Well, not _better_. Not _better_ exactly.) So he materialized some doughnuts and proceeded cheerfully into the shop, making a show of being extremely friendly. Aziraphale was pleasantly surprised, and ridiculously easily pleased with the façade of getting-on that his two companions erected.

Shortly after the last jelly had been eaten, Alex left. He did not come back. Aziraphale barely noticed, and Crowley reveled both in that fact and in that he had made his own personal world a better place in the name of good by saving an angel from temptation, if said angel had never noticed.

Alex found himself a nice boyfriend shortly after, and they laughed together - once they were past the jealous stage - over the stories of Alex's last crush, and how his crush's ex had plainly been some kind of circus freak, with the tricks he could do with his tongue when Aziraphale's back had been turned. The glowing red eyes had been a nice touch as well. And the Air of Undeniable Menace had been the capper. Hilarious, really.

Neither of them ever asked why, then, Alex hadn't laughed it off, any more than Crowley asked himself why it had been so important to make Alex's clothes smell of brimstone for several days on end for good measure.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: This, then, is Fading Grace's chapter. Bow down in awe, all ye, for she is freaking amazing.

Um, and I'd like to thank you, "The". I… feel kind of awkward thanking an article, and in an author's note, but it meant a lot to me that you reviewed last chapter and there isn't any other way to do it. Thank you sincerely.

Anyway, on to the Grace-chapter!

Disclaimer: No, again, neither of us own _Good Omens_.

* * *

Aziraphale wasn't the most romantically aware person – well, _being_ – on Earth.

Or in Heaven.

Or Hell.

Anywhere, really.

Yet, despite this obvious lacking, the angel was still moderately sure that human women weren't supposed to lean that far over just to pour more wine. And her dress was inadvertently lacking some vital material in that region as it was.

And shaking her shoulders to enhanced jiggling was just completely unnecessary.

But it was all directed at Crowley. The demon appeared perfectly comfortable and unsuspecting, leaning back in his wooden chair until it creaked ominously.

Aziraphale knew about sex. Somewhat. In theory. Well, he'd gleaned quite a lot from a certain ineffable superior talking about Mary and how immaculate, exactly, everything had been. But that was…er. Theory.

Maybe the wide brim of his hat, designed to keep humans from seeing the off-putting color of Crowley's eyes, was actually completely shielding him from noticing the impending sexual advances?

Maybe.

Or Crowley, the poor, naïve dear, might not have even seen what the barmaid was trying to imply…

…Aziraphale's cheeks turned a healthy pink, embarrassed for Crowley's sake.

Crowley knew exactly what the misguided girl was doing. He'd been part of the department that _invented_ what she was doing.

But he was watching Aziraphale, to see if such amoral behavior would be ineffably corrected somehow. Also, it was amusing.

Besides, the angel owed him one.

"Why didn't you mention about the orator?" Crowley asked, bringing the wooden cup to his mouth and grimacing a second later.

Wine._French_ wine. In an age where everything was made of wood, which absorbed taste as it absorbed water.

The angel blinked, taken off-guard. "I thought Robespierre was _yours_."

"He took _down_ the tyrannical monarchy."

"Sixteen thousand innocent people were killed."

Crowley paused to swallow, his eyes narrowed, and he lowered the cup. "Freedom, Beauty, Truth, and Love were all firmly established."

Aziraphale smiled. He liked these debates. "All ground to dust under an even more tyrannical dictatorship."

"Equalization of rights. Helping the shorter of our kind. Sorry, kinds. To achieve…equality." Crowley made a face and waved a hand vaguely. "Napoleon's short. _That's_ noble."

"He's killed _off_ all the nobles."

"I'm calling that a blessing."

"Sorry, love. Death and destruction. Mark of your trade."

One finger released his cup and stabbed across the table. "Ah. No. The little bugger instituted uniform currency, very catchy idea, turning all of Europe into one big bartering family. Like weasels, I swear."

"Weasels?" Aziraphale put his hand before his mouth and stifled a giggle.

"With more concrete trade agreements. Ridiculous."

"The man lowered the average height of the adult French male by two inches, my dear."

Crowley clunked his cup down and scowled. "Hate that guy. Selfish, short, egomaniacal. _Wah, snow killed a million of my soldiers_." This was the process by which he surrendered: spite toward the topic in general. "It's a great flat empty country, of course they'll fall back. They can go so far back that they're coming forward from the other end, you prat." The chair began to smoke, until he caught himself and started absentmindedly venting the rotten-egg smell of brimstone from the immediate area.

Aziraphale raised his cup for the first time so far. Its contents were on the more vinegar end of the wine spectrum.

The demon watched avidly as the angel raised the cup, tipped his head back, moved his Adam's apple – in a more literal sense than most – and set the cup down again. The contents were clear.

Crowley hissed. "Wine into water?"

"Can't very well let liquid sin pass my lips," Aziraphale said primly. He put on his best innocent smile. It was _very _innocent.

There was a short lull, and then they both started to laugh. "Yeah, right."

Their cups knocked together. "Cheers," Aziraphale said merrily. He took a sip of what was once again wine, and choked. "Oh, _dear_."

And then the barmaid came back. Her dress had been rearranged to relocate more of her in an upward direction.

Aziraphale turned pink again. Poor Crowley. He had no idea.

Crowley played at noticing the girl's attention. _Very_ amusing.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: La! Ooh, thank you on Grace's behalf for all the lovely reviews… but she'll attend to that. Hah, and I noticed - this story was right above her "Disconnect" when I first put it up. On the _Good Omens_ page thing, I mean. Lor', this is getting random. Ahem. This chapter is mine again. And it takes place just after WWII had officially 'ended'. It ended up being a lot less lighthearted than I was going for, but oh well. That's what I get for going wartorn places.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything here. Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett do. All that jazz. Ooh. The twenties, there's a thought…

* * *

It wasn't the kind of place Aziraphale liked to go. He knew that places like it existed, of course. In fact, even if he had been a more limited type of being, he would have, since they had been - of late - everywhere, or nearly. It was deeply disconcerting; he'd just been getting used to England being untouchable. It had been a nice change. And then… 

"Makes you wonder," Crowley said.

Aziraphale jumped a bit, because Crowley had not been standing next to him in order to say anything a few minutes ago, and now he couldn't place when the demon had showed up.

"Yes," he agreed, and looked at one of the nearer corpses. It was a young girl, propped against the side of a house in the mud, rain splatting insistently on her mostly-bare limbs. She was Chinese, he thought - killed by an American or Russian for being uncooperative, or a Japanese for being Chinese, or maybe a Chinese for being too cooperative with any of the above. "Wonder if humanity is basically a bunch of bloodthirsty animals, or if they actually stop and think these things through before doing them… or if your side is winning, or if maybe He isn't going about this all wrong…"

"Well," Crowley reflected, "no. I mean, it might make me wonder that. You would never wonder anything like that last bit because it would be treasonous. But what I meant was, it makes you wonder what it is with short men and taking over the world. This is three by my count that've gotten halfway there."

"They lost, though," Aziraphale said, halfway having a conversation with Crowley and half just to say it. "I mean, the war's over. Why do they keep fighting? And massacring."

"Ineffible?" Crowley tried. The rain wasn't hitting him. "I mean, in a larger picture sort of sense. Valuable moral lessons provided about something or other for future generations." Aziraphale didn't answer, and Crowley sighed. "Well, come on. I need a favor, angel. Aid, sort of thing."

"What with?" Aziraphale looked away from the girl, and over several more bodies on the way to Crowley's face. They were so _inventive_, humans. Just think of making up a gun. And then using it like… that.

Crowley made a face, apparently perfectly at ease with ignoring everything around them. "My quota." He took Aziraphale's arm and started him walking up toward a broader street, with fewer bodies.

"Oh Crowley. Not _now_."

"I popped some divine ecstasy in for those monks just last week, which is why I'm behind. It's your turn. There!" A group of Soviet soldiers were standing at the corner, being ready to look alert if anyone important came by, and smoking.

"There?" Aziraphale gaped a bit. "What, you want me to tempt them with something? There's no point. No one here is resisting anything. They'll find plenty of things to take advantage of on their own."

"Not while they're on duty," Crowley announced. "Which is the thing. I've tried this group before. Very dedicated types. It'd be a feather in my bonnet, getting them off that blessed corner between nine and five for something other than a riot, or someone else's troops looting."

"But you're here."

"Yeah. I have a plan. I need your help to implement it."

Aziraphale eyed him numbly. "If you like. As long as it doesn't involve women."

Crowley looked guilty.

Aziraphale felt sick, which was impossible, physically speaking, but his mind knew enough to tell him stomach when roiling would be appropriate. "_Did you see what _-"

"But not for that!" Crowley reached under his coat, which was, Aziraphale noticed belatedly, unnecessarily long and flowing, and produced -

"It's a doll," Aziraphale observed.

"Great, isn't it?"

"It's a baby doll."

"It gets better." Crowley performed what would have been a miracle if he hadn't fallen, and was instead a black art. The baby doll dropped the "doll," becoming warm, gushy, and apparently sentient. "It won't last long, but it's pretty good." He looked the way he did when he thought he'd been terribly impressive but was waiting for someone else to say so. The baby was unimpressed, and began to wail.

"You're holding it wrong," Aziraphale said.

"How do you hold them?"

"_I_ don't know!" He took it anyway, miracling himself dry and trying to keep all the puddly, flailing bits in one place. It grabbed one of his fingers and began industriously sucking, face calming. It blinked up at him with large brown eyes nearly hidden behind cheeks like pillows and smiled, then pounded the message home with a gurgle. "Oh…" Aziraphale said.

The entire affair was rather distracting, and when he looked up again, he was mostly alone. At least Crowley was lacking. He was also a she, of Oriental descent, at least judging by the reflections in the puddles nearest, and being approached rapidly by several staunch representatives of the Soviet Empire.

Aziraphale said something very un-angelic, and then the nearest large blond man reached out with an enormous, honest grin and sappy eyes, and asking in the worst-pronounced Chinese Aziraphale had ever had the privilege of being subjected to if he might hold the baby.

Crowley stopped laughing when Aziraphale showed up, male and British-looking again, and stuffed the baby doll back into his hands, but not because it became any less funny.

"You make a lovely woman, angel," he said.

Aziraphale kicked his shin, but not very hard.

"_Ow_!_Bless_ it!" And then he had to burst back out laughing. "Come on, you have to admit that's perfect. They were a half an hour cooing over the thing. Bloody ridiculous. Like a bunch of women at a christening."

"Yes." Aziraphale still didn't sound his old self, but he was looking at the doll fondly. "A bit… well, a bit ineffable, wasn't it?"

"I suppose. Let's get out of here, shall we? There's rampant consumerism hitting hard in America, and I want in."

"All right. Dear?"

"Yes?"

"That is the last time with you and babies."

"Never again, angel."

* * *

AN: I am not just being soppy, here, for the record. The Soviet troops in Manchuria had a recorded thing for babies. Women were supposed to be (almost) fail-safe rape-guarded if they were preggers or toting the little 'uns along. Which... is a thing. Man, humans are weird. 

Oh, plz to be reviewing nao! ...Sorry, I can't resist lazy net-speak once in a while. For fun. Please review if you have time!


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